


Still

by languageintostillair



Series: After an Almost [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Cersei Lannister and Jaime Lannister Are Not Related, F/M, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Post-Break Up, again i'm defining this very loosely, you thought the first two parts were bad? well buckle in kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23158822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/languageintostillair/pseuds/languageintostillair
Summary: When she arrived at her building, she half expected to see his car parked on the street. It wasn’t there, though, and she wasn’t sure if this made her feel relieved, or disappointed. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to feel either of those things.But Brienne knew he would show up, sooner or later. She knew because that’s just how Jaime is, and she knew because their whole conversation has been playing on repeat in her head for hours, no matter how else she tries to fill her time, and her thoughts.I promise I’ll never bother you again after today, he’d said.If that’s what you want.Today is almost up when he finally shows.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: After an Almost [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1662541
Comments: 83
Kudos: 184





	Still

Somehow, Brienne knew he would show up at her apartment that evening.

He didn’t come after her once she got out of his car, but it felt nothing like a reprieve. She’d already had two years of a reprieve from Jaime—it was difficult, for the first few months, but it grew easier not being around him. It _was_ easier.

This didn’t feel anything like that.

She walked aimlessly for the next hour—in any direction except back towards his car—and tried desperately not to think of what he’d said.

_You left me. You gave no say. You cut me off so completely._

_You never gave me the chance._

Then, she’d taken the bus home. She put all these accusations—all these truths—in the empty seat next to her. No one took that seat for the rest of her journey.

When she arrived at her building, she half expected to see his car parked on the street. It wasn’t there, though, and she wasn’t sure if this made her feel relieved, or disappointed. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to feel either of those things.

But Brienne knew he would show up, sooner or later. She knew because that’s just how Jaime is, and she knew because their whole conversation has been playing on repeat in her head for hours, no matter how else she tries to fill her time, and her thoughts. _I promise I’ll never bother you again after today_ , he’d said. _If that’s what you want._

Today is almost up when he finally shows.

She still jumps when she hears her doorbell ring.

His image is distorted through the peephole. It’s familiar, like a recurring dream, and strangely beautiful besides—or not so strange, considering it’s Jaime. She puts her forehead against the wood, takes a deep breath, and opens the door.

“One of your neighbours let me in the building, on their way in,” he explains, as soon as he sees her. “I think they recognised me, from—from before.”

No other greeting, no _Hey._ But _Hey_ is for the beginning of a conversation, and she supposes their conversation never really ended—from this afternoon, from two years ago. Any reprieve was only an illusion. And yet, Jaime doesn’t demand an answer from her, the answer to _tell me you don’t miss me_ —not at first, anyway. He doesn’t step into her apartment, doesn’t ask to be invited in, doesn’t even look at her expectantly. Just stands there.

When she steps back to give him room to enter, he still doesn’t move, and she thinks for a moment that he might turn around and leave, even after coming all this way. But he walks in eventually, and as he passes, she feels a loose strand of her hair flutter against her cheek, in the breeze that is also Jaime. She catches a faint whiff of alcohol.

“Are you drunk?” she asks quietly, once she closes the door. She can’t turn to look at him, not yet.

“No.” A pause. “Tipsy, maybe. I had three drinks.”

“Did… did you drive?”

“ _That’s_ your most pressing concern?” he sneers. It’s hardly a cruel statement, but it reminds her how caustic he can be with his words. “No. I didn’t _drive_. I _walked_.”

She spins to face him then. “You _walked_?”

He doesn’t reply, and she thinks his silences can be caustic too. She thinks the sight of him, standing in her apartment after two years, is the most caustic thing of all.

She follows his gaze as it wanders from the couch, to the dining table, to the kitchen, and down the hallway leading to her bedroom. The guest bedroom too, where he’d stayed the night more than a handful of times. Nothing much has changed. She’d rented out the place furnished, and her tenant had left the place in decent enough condition. When she moved back in, and brought her things out of storage, she put most of them back in the same place. It was what she was used to, and there was no use in changing what she was used to.

Jaime’s gaze wanders, absorbs, remembers. There are memories in this gaze, she knows. It takes a tour of her apartment, then comes back to rest on her. She hadn’t bothered to change out of the outfit she’d been wearing that afternoon, and it makes her feel more self-conscious than if she’d been wearing her shabbiest clothes. It’s as if she’d spent the past six, seven hours waiting for him to show up. Maybe she had. She’d known he’d show up, after all.

She walks into her living room, almost sits down on her couch, but decides to bypass it. She selects one of the armchairs instead—it’s safer. Armchairs are for a single person only. She won’t risk sitting side-by-side on her couch with Jaime, with nothing between them.

He still picks the spot on the couch that is closest to her. He leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees, and interlaces his fingers. Instinctively, she crosses her legs away from him, and he sneers again, this time without words.

“What do you want, Jaime?” she whispers, after a long while. “Why did you come?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I suppose… I suppose I want an answer.”

And there it is.

“Will you leave if I say it?”

“Probably not.” He rests his forehead on his hands. “You’d be lying.”

 _Bastard._ “How would you know?” she replies, as defiantly as she can.

He shrugs, without looking up at her. “I just do.”

“So you won’t trust my word.”

Jaime jerks his head up at that. “You know,” he spits, “you always used to make such a big deal about honesty. And I always—I actually thought you were the most honest person in my life. I actually _believed_ that. But you— _you_ were the one that lied to _me_.”

 _When did she ever—_ “ _How_?”

“I… I may have—I refrained from mentioning Cersei in your presence. I’ll admit that. But at least you knew she existed. Whereas I, I knew _nothing_ about how you felt. So forgive me if I don’t _trust your word_.”

His knuckles are growing white, all twisted around each other. Hers are too, gripping the armrests—she doesn’t even need to look down at them to know. Gods, she’d never thought of herself as a liar until he said so. She’s gone over everything countless times in her head, and this had never crossed her mind before. And it’s true, isn’t it? Jaime’s right. She—she had lied by omission too. There’s some small part of her that is telling her to apologise for it, but right now she’s just—she’s filled with so much—so much _anger_. She knew Cersei existed— _so what?_ He just confessed that he’d avoided mentioning her, _actively_ avoided it, and Brienne still doesn’t know why, and still doesn’t _want_ to know, frankly. So she responds to the only part of his statement that she can bear to touch:

“You knew nothing about how I felt then. What makes you think you know better now?”

“Fine.” He leans back in his seat, and opens his arms. “Say it then. Tell me.”

She _can’t._ She can’t tell him she doesn’t miss him. Not when he just called her a liar. “Why?” she asks instead. “Why is this—why do you need this from me?”

He tilts his head back, sighs; lifts it back up again, looks straight at her. “Because I—I want you in my life again, Brienne.”

He says it like it’s so _easy_. Like what _she_ wants doesn’t matter.

“No. Fuck.” She clambers out of her seat, and strides away from it, from _him_ , over to the far corner of her living room. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Why the fuck _not_?”

“ _Damn it_ , Jaime,” Brienne snaps, twisting back to face him. “You may want me in _your_ life, but I don’t want you in _mine_. Can’t you just _fucking_ accept that?”

He stands up right then, but the moment he takes a step towards her, she can’t help but draw back. He stops, and puts both his hands up as if in surrender. As if he wants to.

That’s what she wants, isn’t it? For Jaime to surrender?

To leave?

“You really hate me that much?” he asks softly. Both his hands are still in the air.

She’s tempted to tell him _yes_ , just to make him go. But she can’t. She can’t tell him she hates him, just like she can’t tell him she doesn’t miss him. “No. No.” She wraps her arms around herself, backs herself into the corner. “I just—I can’t—I _won’t_ go back to that place—” She’s worked so _hard_ —

“What place?”

She shakes her head. She can’t tell him. She can’t tell him because there’s so much to say. One thing will lead to the next which will lead to the next—

“ _What place_ , Brienne?”

She squeezes her eyes shut. “It’s not _you_ that I hate, Jaime.”

“What— _oh._ ”

That’s the truth of it.

It isn’t that she believes she’s worth hating—she knows better than that now. She knew better than that even two, three years ago, back when Jaime was in her life. But _knowing_ —knowing is one thing. Jaime had—he’d brought out all these _feelings_ in her, somehow, feelings that she wasn’t good enough. Not intentionally, but—she’d—she’d used him as a conduit for all of her fears. And it had suffocated her. It wasn’t always the case—he’d lifted her up, too, maybe more so than anyone else ever had—but she’d figured out how to mangle it all. She’d figured out how to use him against herself. To use him as evidence of her own inadequacy.

She puts her hands over her eyes now, and then she _laughs_. It’s the only thing she can do, if she doesn’t want to start sobbing right there. “You don’t have a monopoly on self-loathing, you know.”

It takes her a few seconds, but she calms down enough to open her eyes again. Jaime’s back on the couch now, and he seems so… so _small_. She’d never thought Jaime could look small.

“Do you think it’ll be the same?” he asks, without meeting her eyes. “Does it have to be?”

“It will be.” She knows it will. She’ll torture them both with it.

“It doesn’t—it doesn’t _have_ to be. Now that we know—we could—we could make it different this time.”

“I don’t know _how_.” Maybe she was wrong, this afternoon. Maybe he doesn’t understand her all that much, if he thinks that things could change. “There’s no way for our friendship to be different. Can’t you see that?”

“That’s not what I—haven’t you been listening to me at all?” He looks up at her, and she’s struck by an odd feeling that he’s—he’s _offering_ himself to her. “Brienne. I can’t be _friends_ with you either.”

No. This is worse. This is _so much worse_ than being friends with him again. She has to look away. She can’t speak. She clutches a hand to her chest, like some—some _fair maiden_ , though she’s the farthest thing from one. It’s ridiculous. It _hurts_.

“Brienne. Say—say _something_ ,” Jaime begs. She must have been silent for a long time. “Curse me, or kiss me, or call me a liar. _Something._ ”

She’d flinched when he said _kiss me_. She knows that he noticed.

“Is that so abhorrent to you?”

_No. That’s the problem._

“You think it’s abhorrent to _me_?”

_Yes. No._

“It isn’t. It _isn’t_.”

_That’s the problem._

Brienne had taught herself something, a long time ago. She enacts desire in secret; she suppresses desire; she is never the object of it. It’s been a fundamental principle of her existence for so long that she never thought she’d have a life that wasn’t governed by it.

But now—Jaime’s words—

“I won’t be your afterthought,” she says, all of a sudden, with more control than she expects. Without expecting to say it at all.

“My—my _afterthought_?” Jaime repeats, incredulously. “What are you _talking_ about?”

“I’m— _convenient_. I get it. Your marriage failed and—I came back and you—now you’re saying all these things to me—”

“You’re a damned _fool_ , you know that?” he interrupts, half furious, half helpless. “Brienne—my marriage failed _because_ of you.”

She’s not clutching her chest anymore. Or maybe she is. Everything feels numb.

“Fuck,” she hears him say. “I shouldn’t have—”

He made a mistake. It was a slip of the tongue, it meant nothing. She means nothing to him. It’s all a cruel joke.

“I wasn’t—” she rasps, “I wasn’t _here_. I haven’t _been here_.”

“You didn’t need to be.” It’s Jaime’s turn to put his head in his hands now. “I just meant… our friendship. I didn’t realise it until later, but—it _changed_ me. I don’t know how else I can say it.” He rubs his palms up and down his face. “I used to—I tolerated so much. From Cersei. I thought it was all part of loving someone. Part of loving _her_. But after—after you. And after you left. No matter how much I tried. I married her and—and we barely lasted six months. It took me much longer than it should—I’d known her half my life. But I finally realised—I couldn’t do it anymore. And I couldn’t have done that if… I don’t know. I gave it a lot of thought, and—the only thing in my life that felt different was _you_.”

It doesn’t make any sense. He’d left Cersei because—because… Gods, she can’t even put it into words. She doesn’t understand it at all. He’s saying she—she _changed_ him? “Don’t… don’t put me on a pedestal, Jaime. Don’t do that.” Putting her on a pedestal is just another way of telling her that it’s _her fault_.

“I’m _not_ ,” he insists, almost desperate, lifting his head from his hands. “That’s not what I—I just—I just figured. I figured there’s a better way to be, that’s all. I guess, when you—when I found out you were back. I thought… I’d hoped. That we might be able to figure that out together.”

 _Together_. But not—not as _friends_. “Jaime,” is all she can say, and she can barely hear herself speak it.

“If you don’t—” he’s grasping his knees now, releasing, grasping— “I won’t force you to—if it’s a no, then I’ll—”

“I can’t—I need to.” _To go. To hide._ “To think.”

It’s not a _no_. It’s not a _yes_ , either.

All Jaime wants is answers she cannot give.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, though she couldn’t say herself what he’s apologising for. “It’s—” He looks at his watch. “I’ll—I’ll go. I’ll—I’ll get a cab.”

Oh. She’d almost forgot that he’d walked, and Seven knows where from. When Jaime stands again, he stumbles a little—she wonders if he’d lied to her about having only three drinks, though he’d claimed he wouldn’t lie to her three times that afternoon—and _fuck_ , she’ll likely regret this in the morning:

“It’s—it’s late. Stay.”

 _Stay._ It doesn’t take till morning; she regrets it already. (Later, just before she drifts off to a fitful sleep, Brienne will think that _stay_ sounds an awful lot like an answer.)

Jaime stays rooted to the spot. “I shouldn’t—” he mumbles, though she can tell he wants to accept her offer. The Jaime of two years ago wouldn’t even have waited for her to offer. He’d always just gone ahead and overstayed his welcome, knowing he never truly _could_. Not with her. Not back then, anyway.

“It’s fine. I—I’ll worry, otherwise,” and she doesn’t want to worry about Jaime. Or rather, if she has to, it’ll be easier if he’s just in the next room. “You can sleep in your—” _Fuck_. “I mean, in the guest room. I’ll—I’ll get you something to wear.”

When he nods, Brienne takes the long way round the living room to get to her bedroom, picks out a t-shirt and sweatpants for him. She walks into the guest room and places it on the bed.

Then—without speaking to, or even looking at Jaime again—she goes into her room, and closes the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Already have a bit of the next part written. Assignment? What Assignment? (Um, sorry to those of you who are actually still following The Assignment!)
> 
> Thanks as always to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat)! And I’m on [Tumblr](https://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/), if you’d prefer to scream at me there.


End file.
